Categories
Poetry Vignettes

Beetle on a String

We looped a thread around the beetle’s body.

It buzzed over our heads.

Circling, circling, circling.

No remorse. No retreat.

Wasn’t about life. Wasn’t about a game.

Was about the day, was about time.

The Scarab Beetle, lost in the world.

Found.

Only to be handcuffed for being strong.

Held down, flight cancelled for the night.

The next day, dead. The thread tied around its corpse.

Limp-like, breathless.

The salagubang. A friend.

Categories
Notes Poetry

Today, I read a poem…

It was by Helena Lipstadt entitled “A Quarrel with the Village of My Birth.”

The word “village” lured me in.

I fell in love with each “Even her” – especially in the following line:

“Even her avenues are lined with pikes.”

Then I read each “Of course” and was compelled to share.

Read “A Quarrel with the Village of My Birth” at Porter House Review.